Leopard In The Snow. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
his elbows. “I was beginning to get worried about you.”
The man with Helen began to unbutton his coat, his eyes flickering thoughtfully over the shivering girl in front of him. “As you can see, we have a visitor, Bolt,” he remarked, in his low attractive voice. “The young lady’s car is out of action some distance down the lane. After you’ve prepared us some tea, perhaps you’d go and retrieve her suitcases.”
Bolt’s expression as he listened to his master was rather like Sheba’s, Helen thought uncharitably. They both behaved as though the safety and well being of the man they served were the most important things in the world.
“Of course, sir.” Bolt’s mouth moved in the semblance of a smile. “I gather the young lady will be staying the night. I’ll prepare a room for her, shall I?”
“Thank you, Bolt.” The other man threw off his leather coat to reveal a black silk shirt and waistcoat beneath. The manservant took his coat, and then his employer turned to Helen. “You may give your coat to Bolt, too. I assure you he knows how to handle wet garments without causing them any ill effects.”
Helen was shivering so much she couldn’t undo the leather buttons, and to her astonishment the man limped forward and brushing her cold hands aside unfastened the coat himself. Then he lifted his hands and slid it off her shoulders and the man Bolt caught it as it fell.
Helen shivered all the more. She resented the way he had taken control without her permission. She didn’t know this man with his harsh face and mocking tongue, and nor did she want to. Something about him disturbed her, frightened her even. She told herself it was his limp, the way his hip twisted when he moved, the arrogance of the man. And yet the fleeting touch when his fingers had deposed hers had caused a shaft of fire to shoot up her arm almost as though his touch had burned her, and she was at once fascinated and repelled.
Bolt moved to open a door to their right. Realising that both men were waiting for her to make the first move, she walked jerkily into the room beyond, hugging herself tightly in an effort to stop the enervating shivering. She found herself in an enormous living room lit by two standard lamps and by the glow from a roaring fire in the huge grate. Logs had been piled on to the blaze and the room was redolent with the scent of pine. The floor was partially covered with rugs and as well as several dining chairs and a bureau there was a dark brown, tapestry-covered three-piece suite which, although it had seen better days, looked superbly comfortable. Some shelves to one side of the fireplace were well filled with books and paperbacks and magazines, and a tray on which reposed a bottle of Scotch, a decanter of what looked like brandy, and two glasses were set conveniently beside the armchair at the farther side of the fire.
The door closed as Helen was pondering those two glasses, and she flinched as the cheetah brushed past her to stretch its length on the hearth. She glanced round apprehensively, half afraid she was alone with the beast, to find the man limping towards her. The servant Bolt had apparently gone about his business.
“Won’t you sit down?” he asked, indicating the couch in front of the fire, and after a moment Helen moved to perch uneasily on the edge of an armchair.
The man gave her a wry look, and then took the armchair opposite, stretching his long legs out in front of him with evident relief. After a moment, he turned sideways and took the stopper out of the decanter. “Some brandy, I think,” he remarked quietly, with an encompassing glance in her direction. “You seem in need of – sustenance.”
He did not get up to give her the drink but stretched across the hearth and Helen had, perforce, to take it. Brandy was not her favourite spirit, but she was glad of its warmth to take away the chill inside her. She sipped it slowly, and gradually she stopped shaking.
Her companion did not have anything to drink, but lay back in his armchair, his eyes half closed, surveying her with penetrating intensity. Before she had finished the brandy, Bolt returned with a tray of tea. He ousted the cheetah from its comfortable position on the hearth and set an occasional table in its place, putting the tray within easy reach of his master. Then he straightened, and said: “I’ll go for the suitcases now, sir. If the young lady will give me her keys.”
“Oh! Oh, yes, of course.” Helen gave him a rueful smile and rummaged in her handbag. She produced the leather ring which held all her keys and handed it over. “I’m very – grateful, Bolt. It’s about a mile down the road – the car, I mean.”
Bolt nodded. “I’ll find it, miss.”
“Thank you.” Helen wriggled a little further on to her chair. The brandy had done its work and she was beginning to feel almost normal again. This time tomorrow she might have reached Bowness and this whole episode would be simply a memory, something amusing to tell her friends when she got back to London.
After the door had closed behind Bolt, the man opposite sat up and regarded the tray. As well as the teapot and its accoutrements there was a plate of sandwiches and a rather delicious looking fruit pie.
“Milk and sugar, or lemon?” he enquired, the tawny eyes annoyingly disconcerting. But with her newly restored self-confidence, Helen refused to be intimidated.
“Milk, but no sugar, thank you,” she replied, and as he poured the tea she went on: “Don’t you think it’s time we exchanged names?”
The man finished pouring the tea, added milk, and handed the cup to her. “If it’s important to you,” he conceded dryly.
Helen gasped. “You mean you would ask a complete stranger to share your house without caring what that person’s name was?”
“Perhaps I consider the kind of person one is rather more important than one’s name,” he suggested, continuing to look at her, his eyes unblinking. “For example, I don’t need to know your name to know that you’re a rather headstrong young woman who doesn’t always take the advice that’s offered to her.”
Helen flushed. “How can you know that?” she exclaimed scornfully.
He shrugged. “It’s unusual, is it not, to find a young woman like yourself driving alone in conditions like these and apparently, as you’ve admitted you have suitcases with you, prepared to stay somewhere.” He frowned. “You may have arranged to meet someone, of course, and yet you seem unconcerned at being delayed overnight.”
Helen sipped her tea. “Women have been known to make journeys alone, you know,” she retorted.
“In conditions like these? It’s not usual.”
“I – I may be a working girl – a representative of some sort.”
“Who’s lost her way?”
“Yes.”
“Possible. But not probable.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think you are a working girl.”
Helen uttered an impatient exclamation. “Why not?”
“The way you spoke to Bolt. As though you were used to having people run about after you.”
Helen sighed. She had the feeling that in any argument with him she would come out the loser. And he was offering her his hospitality, after all. Perhaps she could be a little more gracious in accepting it. It wasn’t like her to behave so cattily. But something about him brought out the worst in her.
“All right,” she conceded at last. “So I’m not a working girl. As a matter of fact, you’re right. My name is Helen James. I’m Philip James’ daughter.”
“Should that name mean something to me?” he enquired, somewhat sardonically. She noticed he did not take tea but helped himself to a sandwich after she had refused. “I’m afraid I’m rather – out of touch.”
He smiled and for a moment he looked years younger. Helen’s lips parted. His face! Something about his face was familiar. She had seen it before – she was sure of it. But where? And when? And in what connection?
Forcing